


Dig

by RileySteele



Category: Pokemon, Pokemon Mystery Dungeon
Genre: A/U, Actaeon pairing, Alternate Universe, M/M, Music, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:32:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileySteele/pseuds/RileySteele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yonoir is tired of the music world, of being a talent scout for burnouts and wanna-bes- only then, a bassist with the voice of a god enters his life. Will this encounter change Yonoir, or will he turn Juptile into his new pawn?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dig

Corriander. Lolitacon. Moist Towelettes.

Did I have to say it?

Trash.

That would be the problem with being a talent scout/producer. In order to keep your job, you had to listen to the screamers, the boy-bands, the garage bands who should have stayed in the garage, with the door closed, in some deserted place.

All in hopes of finding some undiscovered gem in the rough.

But I wouldn't find it at this open-mic night. I didn't need another emo poetry slam to dull, non-specific riffs. What I needed was a beer, or ten.

Ten might be enough.

 ~~~

So why was I in this industry? Was was the great Dusknoir, a man who went to college and got a master's decree in an amazing field of work, playing puppet to the so called 'Man'?

It was simple. I was worming my way up, one Top 40's list number at a time. I just needed some willing pawns to take the real work- the sweat, blood, tears- make a stupid bubble-gum pop song, and skyrocket, giving me more and more power. They would fizzle out and eventually be forgotten, and the media would move on to the next sucker- as would I.

I wasn't going to work for the Man forever. I was going to BE the Man.

But first, I needed to find my pawn.

 ~~~

'Spinda's Cafe,' the neon lights proclaimed. It claimed to be a cafe, at the very least- but one look inside would convince any possible customers otherwise.

It was an old place out of the way of the main highways. A few years ago, it was a nightclub. You could still tell, from the smooth section of floor across from the stage. Some washed up old country singer was always there, wailing tunes in the background.

Every inch of the place was covered in color. Faded, dark colors, possibly an interior decorator's panic attack, or the location of some extreme paintball war. The chairs at the bar were mismatched, some stools, a section of a bench, on old antique chair. The constantly high owner, Spinda, was behind the counter, as always. He always gave a bit of a show if you ordered the special- 'Spinda's Special Spinning Shake', one of which could knock you out of your chair. It would be my date for the night.

While Spinda amused itself (androgyny, what a pain) making my drink, I took a look at the stage. Maybe one of my old burnouts would be up there. The lights were down, however, so I could not get a good look.

I was halfway through the special when I heard it.

_"We all have a weakness... Some of them ours are easy to... Identify... Look me in the eye..."_

A deep, soulful voice, with a subtle underlying emotion.

_"And ask for forgiveness, we'll make a pact to never speak... That word again... Yes you are my friend..."_

A slim man was sitting on one of the makeshift wooden stools on the stage. His eyes were closed, and he played a bass guitar. His hair was deep green, pulled back in a ponytail with what looked like a leaf accent. His clothes were standard castoffs, a ripped up punk shirt, jeans that were worn out at the knees and at least two sizes too big, secured by a dark green belt which was little more than a ribbon with a safety pin. He also wore battered sneakers with spangles on the fabric, only a few, for most had fallen off. There were two rings on his fingers, index and middle, both of some sort of metal. They flashed in the lights every so often as he deftly hit all the right notes.

As he sang and played, I listened. It sounds terribly passe, but the world seemed to fade. His humble clothes, they faded into the background. He sang directly into my soul- if producers could claim to have souls- and changed it, somehow. Just for a moment, while I was spellbound.

_"We all have something, that digs at us, at least we dig, each other..."_

He opened his eyes. Then I realized he was watching me, watching him.

_"So when weakness turns my, ego up, I know you'll count on the me from yesterday- if I turn into, another~"_

He was singing to me. Not at me, like so many others I had faced tonight, not for me. To me. As if he wasn't trying to give me what I wanted.

_"Dig me up from under what, is covering~ The better part of me! Sing this song- remind me that we'll always have, each other! When everything else is gone-"_

He didn't feel intimidated by me, or pressured. It was not he who got a precious piece of my time. It was I, who got just a taste of his. I felt a little overwhelmed.

Then he smirked.

He knew.

_"We all have a sickness, that cleverly attaches and, multiplies... No matter how we try..."_

"Your drink is getting less spinny," Spinda informed me. I waved my hand, irritated at his interruption.

_"There will always be someone who digs at us, at least we dig, each other~"_

The song went on forever and a day, and yet was over far too soon. After the closing notes, he simply stood, and leapt off the stage. He was just going to leave after that one song.

He stopped at the bar to say a word to Spinda, placed something on the counter, and turned to the door once more.

I lifted a hand, started to ask, as he passed, if I could buy him a drink.

But as he moved, he looked at me out of the corner of half-lidded eyes, smirked, and shot his tongue out, tracing his lips so quickly it was almost certainly a trick of the light.

And he did it without looking trashy.

He also knocked the air out of me. I just watched as he slid out the door, then turned and began to walk up the street.

"That young man just paid for your drink~" Spinda grinned widely. "See~?"

He tossed a piece of paper at me. It was what once must have been a receipt, to a music store, it looked like. Written on the front was the instruction to put my drink on his tab. Then I looked at the back.

_'You seemed to like my music. Either that, or you're wasted._

_Either way, have one on me._

_~G'_

That was it. No full first name, contact information, or anything. I would probably never see the guy again.

So why did I keep looking, as if suddenly the mystery of this stranger would be revealed to me?

Why did I go home that night, pass out on the couch, and dream of those deep green eyes, that amused little smirk?

Perhaps I would never have the answer to those questions. But I had a note, a letter.

A little piece of some wish I never knew I'd had.


End file.
